Conor was starting to turn wary, even if he wasn’t sure why. “I heard scratching, a couple of times. Thought it was mice, maybe, or a bird that had got into the attic.”
“What about at night? That’s when the animal would have been doing its hunting or shagging or whatever it’s into, and you were right outside, with your little binoculars. Ever see a mink, on your travels? An otter? Even a rat?”
“There’s stuff living out there, yeah. I heard plenty of things moving around, at night. Some of them were big. No clue what they were, because I didn’t see any of them. It was dark.”
“That didn’t worry you? You’re out there in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wildlife you can’t see, nothing to protect yourself with?”
Conor shrugged. “Animals don’t bother me.”
“Brave man,” I said approvingly.
Richie said—rubbing his head, confused, the bewildered newbie trying to get things straight—“Hang on a sec there. I’m after missing a bit. How’d you know Pat was looking out for this animal?”
Conor’s mouth opened for an instant; then he shut down, thinking fast. “What’s the big deal?” I demanded. “It’s not a complicated question. Any reason you don’t want to tell us?”
“No. I just don’t remember how I found out.”
Richie and I looked at each other and started to laugh. “Beautiful,” I said. “Honest to God, no matter how long I do this job, that one never gets old.” Conor’s jaw had hardened: he didn’t like being laughed at. “Sorry, fella. But you’ve got to understand, we see an awful lot of amnesia around here. Sometimes I worry that the government’s putting something in the water. Want to try again?”
His mind was revving. Richie said, with the grin still in his voice, “Ah, come on, man. What harm?”
Conor said, “Listened at the kitchen window, one night. Heard Pat and Jenny talking about it.”
No streetlighting, no outside lights in the Spains’ garden: once it got dark, he could have come over the wall and spent his evenings pressed against their windows, listening. Privacy should have been the least of the Spains’ problems, out among rubble and creeping vines and sea-sounds, miles of motorway from anyone who gave a damn about them. Instead, not one thing had been their own. Conor wandering through their house, pressing up against their late-night wine and cuddles; the Gogans’ greasy fingers pawing over their arguments, poking into the soft crevices of their marriage. The walls of their home had been tissue paper, ripping and melting to nothing.
“Interesting,” I said. “And how did the conversation sound to you?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Who said what? Were they worried? Upset? Arguing? Yelling and screaming? What?”
Conor’s face had gone blank. He hadn’t planned for this. “I didn’t hear all of it. Pat said something about a trap not working. And I guess Jenny said something about trying different bait, and Pat said if he could just get a look at the animal then he’d know what to use. They didn’t seem upset, nothing like that. Bit concerned, maybe, but so would anyone be. It definitely wasn’t an argument. It didn’t sound like a big deal.”